Trepidation
by Revriley
Summary: Inspector Lestrade has done something that surprises even the Great Detective. Now he is gone—and one Inspector has been looking guiltier with each passing day. Will the good doctor and our favorite detective be able to solve this puzzling affair?
1. Prologue

** Trepidation**

**Full Summary: **Inspector Lestrade has done something that surprises even the Great Detective. Now he is gone—and one Inspector has been looking guiltier with each passing day. Will the good doctor and our favorite detective be able to solve this puzzling affair?'

**Main Characters: **Holmes, Watson, Lestrade. (And the rest of the Inspectors, perhaps the Irregulars too)

**This was going to be my first Sherlock Holmes story, but instead I wrote a humorous oneshot called Malicious Generosity (three reviews) But still...advice appreciated. I was trying to imitate the style of Doyle—what do you guys think?**

Oh yeah...Holmes had once mentioned that there was an ongoing rivalry between Gregson and Lestrade, which is somewhat exaggerated here. (Especially in the prologue).

...

_"He is the most famous detective ever to walk the corridors of Scotland Yard, yet he existed only in the fertile imagination of a writer. He was Inspector Lestrade. We do not know his first name, only his initial: G. Although he appears thirteen times in the immortal adventures of Sherlock Holmes, nothing is known of the life outside the Yard of the detective whom Dr. Watson described unflatteringly as sallow, rat-faced, and dark-eyes and whom Holmes saw as quick and energetic but wholly conventional, lacking in imagination, and normally out of his depth-the best of a bad lot who had reached the top in the CID by bulldog tenacity."_-H. Paul Jeffers

...

**Prologue**

**(Lestrade, Third Person POV)**

It was with irritation that I threw down my pen, moodily staring at the blank paper on my desk. The last case of ours had gone disastrously, and had it not been for Mr. Holmes, I fear Scotland Yard would have become the laughing stock of London. However, the Great Detective had easily solved the case, and just as easily had caught the escaped murderer.

And I was to take the credit for it, and was to be praised for intelligence that I lacked. There is no better contradiction of Justice. An unintelligent man, who came to his position through not skill but bulldog tenacity takes the credit for cases that were solved by a far more deserving man!

Wallowing in self-loathing, I was so withdrawn from the world that I did not notice that Gregson had entered the office until he had been standing in front of my desk for several minutes. "Tsk. You haven't started the report yet, Lestrade?" The infuriating Inspector smirked, gesturing to the glaringly blank paper that taunted me from where it lay.

"No. And if you dare mock me I'll..." Oh...what was the point, anyway? "Never mind. Mock me all you want. I don't care, and besides, I deserve it."

At this Gregson looked at me, and I thought I saw a glimmer of...whatever it was that one saw in the eyes of one's rival and colleague. Then he slowly placed both hands on the edge of my desk, and leaned forward, and grinned at me. "Don't worry...I'm sure you'll find a way to steal another's credit. You always do."

I believe I can say with certainty that I do not easily lose my temper. When Constable Mallow—an amiable but clumsy fellow—had accidentally let a deranged grocer escape, I had managed to stay calm. During a case not very long ago, when I had been locked in a coffin at the undertaker's for several hours, and when the drunk sod finally opened it after realizing that the unusually and persistent pounding came from not his head but a coffin, I didn't unleash my rage upon him. But this was the last straw.

"Damn the case." I stood up, looking at Gregson with all the energy I could muster. "Damn you, the case, and any dignity I have left. I have nothing but shame, Inspector, for what I have done—to the Yard, my family, and Mr. Holmes. Do you think I willingly deprive Mr. Holmes of what he deserves? The superintendent himself told me that I had to take the credit because Scotland Yard, the honorable Scotland Yard would be damned before it would let an outsider take over a case and be rewarded for it. Well sir, it is time for Scotland Yard to be damned. In fact, it is overdue."

With that, I snatched up my papers, and left the room.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::lestrade:::::::::::::::::::::;

It was only when I had exited the Yard when I realized that I had left both my hat and coat behind, and that I had no fare for a cab. However, I could not give Gregson the satisfaction of returning for comfort possessions, so I continued on my way home.

It seemed Lady Luck had decided that I was no longer worth helping, for it started to rain—a cacophony of thunder, lightning, and dogs yelping as they ran for cover. I hunched over slightly, in an attempt to shield what documents I held, and stuck close to the walls of the buildings beside me, hoping for the least amount of shelter from the rain. There was none.

"Lestrade? Inspector Lestrade?"

I looked up, and saw a man standing not far away, his head tilted to one side.

"Yes, that is who I am, sir. What do you-?"

I was cut off as he rushed forward, and in one move grabbed me by the collar and slammed me against a wall. I desperately clung to my papers, but it was no use, as he grabbed them and flung them to the pavement.

"No!" The cry issued forth automatically from my lips, and I reached out in a futile attempt to grab them.

"You, _sir_," He said, his foul breath coming in harsh gasps. "Are a menace and a threat, and that is why I ask you as a gentleman to a man to resign."

I couldn't make out his features well enough to guess about who he was, but his voice was that of one who spent his time among smoke and soot. A chimney sweep, perhaps? A factory worker?

"I was already planning on doing it-" I started, but was cut off as he punched me, a swift blow to the jaw.

"Don't make me laugh. You're not only one of the most well-known Yarders there is, but you've got respect and a good salary too. No sane man would give that willingly away."

I managed to smile at him politely. "Well sir, then I am not sane."

He delivered another blow, this time at my abdomen. "Regardless, you will resign. If you don't, I'll come after you again, and then your family, and then those close to you. Do you understand?"

"Perfectly." I managed, winded at his previous display of strength.

"You better." The man withdrew immediately, purposely stepped on one of my papers and bolted for a nearby alley.

I scrambled for the documents, picking them up and attempting to wipe of the mud with my sleeve. To my dismay, there was a large, muddy footprint across a crude but loving drawing my youngest daughter had drawn for me. And then I realized—I knew someone who could perhaps give me more information on that man—Mr. Holmes.

Could I even go to him in this state? The guilt I already possessed had grown since Gregson visited me in the office, and I was loathe to visit the man I had robbed so much from. Nevertheless...I would go. Just this once, and then I would leave the man be, and with my absence I hoped he would rise to the success and fame that was rightly his, and not mine.

:::::::::::::::::::::lestrade:::::::::::::::

I knocked on the door of 221b Baker Street, and then moved out of the answerer's peripheral range.

"Hello? Who's there?" Mrs. Hudson's voice came clearly from the inside of the house, and warm light spilled out of the entrance, contrasting greatly with the weather.

"Please—, don't be alarmed by my appearance—again." I replied, and stepped up to the door.

The poor landlady gasped, her hand flitting involuntarily to her mouth. "What have you done this time, Inspector! Your face...?" I reached up a hand, and winced when I toughed my cheek. A bruise must have already started to form, then. "You're dripping wet again, too! Really, Inspector, you must learn to take better care of yourself."

"Is Mr. Holmes busy?" I asked quietly, stepping inside. I would almost be relieved if he was, for then I would not have to face him, and I would not have to show him a personal object.

"I believe he is experimenting," she said with a sniff, and I got the impression she didn't like his 'experimenting' very much. "But I will gladly interrupt him."

"I do not wish to trouble you nor him..." I quickly assured her.

"Nonsense. You are not troubling anybody. I disapprove of the practice anyway, and by the Good Lord, he _will_ see you after you have come all this way in the rain...without a hat and coat, too!" She had closed the door, and she then made her way up the stairs to The Great Detective and his Boswell.

I waited patiently by the stairs, and as I did I began to hear raised voices from the upper landing.

"I do not wish to see the good Inspector at this moment! I am conducting an experiment on-"

"I do not care what reason you have for endangering our residence again, Mr. Holmes, but I shall do whatever it takes to make you see him—I can't begin to imagine what's he's been through to get here, I mean, you should see the state he is in."

"...Did he bring a case?"

"I do not know, but from his appearance it would seem he has been in a bit of trouble..."

"Fine, Mrs. Hudson. Bring him up."

There came a pause, and then the landlady appeared at the top of the stairs.

"Come on up, Inspector."

I slowly made my way up the seventeen steps, realizing for the first time that my head was aching from when it had hit against the wall. I hesitated at the door, behind which was the detective and doctor—I couldn't do it, I-

"Go on, Inspector." Mrs. Hudson came up from behind me. I swallowed and pushed open the door, feeling very much like a schoolboy about to be punished.

Mr. Holmes must have finished or put aside his experiment, for he now sat on the couch, smoking a pipe. Doctor Watson was reading in an armchair, and stood upon my entrance.

"Hullo, Inspector—what happened to your face?"

"It is nothing." I dismissed the bruise with a wave of my hand, and made my way to the detective.

"But you are without coat and hat!" The Doctor continued, shocked.

"I say again, it is nothing, Doctor. I am sincerely sorry for bothering you, Mr. Holmes, but I will be quick, and then I shall leave you to your peace."

"Yes, yes, what is it?" Holmes snapped.

I hesitated, holding the drawing in my hand—showing him a drawing of my child's was the last thing I wanted to do—especially because of the picture's contents. I was stuck between personal privacy and bringing a possible criminal to justice. Mr. Holmes then made the decision for me, snatching the paper out of my hands to look at it.

"Is it possible for you to determine the origin of the mud from the footprint?" I inquired, praying that he would not remark on the paper itself.

"Of course." He huffed, raising an eyebrow, indicating that to think he could not was ridiculous. I colored slightly, and the good Doctor spoke up.

"Lestrade, why don't you stay and have a drink? Surely you must be freezing, after being out in the rain..."

I shook my head, although I was secretly pleased that the Doctor cared enough about my welfare to offer. "I must be getting home, Doctor—although that is very kind of you." Doctor Watson was looking at me in concern, exhaustion and worry both showing clearly in his expression.

"But you'll be walking, won't you? You would have been dry, or at the very least only slightly wet if you had taken a cab."

I smiled. "No, you see, I like to walk in the rain."

He snorted. "Nonsense. Let us pay your-"

"I won't hear of it!" I exclaimed. "Mr. Holmes, how soon will you be able to give me the results?" He had cast the paper aside, and had returned to his experiment.

"Tomorrow, Lestrade, tomorrow." He impatiently gestured to the door. "Tomorrow!"

I bade the Doctor goodbye, and left the room, only to be immediately accosted by the landlady.

"Inspector! Where do you think you're going? You cannot possibly go out again in this weather!"

I smiled at her concern, and replied that I must be going, regardless of what the weather was.

"You must eat something then." She said firmly. "Something hot."

I insisted that she should not go to the trouble on my account, but she continued. "Don't you dare, Inspector. I already made the soup besides, and you are not going to let it go to waste."

It was a very good soup, which I ate heartily, and thanked Mrs. Hudson for it profusely. "It was nothing, dear." She replied affectionately, and stood at the doorway to watch me leave—bless her heart.

I walked down the street, not bothering to protect the rest of the papers, which were ruined. My thoughts then strayed to my children and wife, all of whom must have been worried about my whereabouts at this time tonight. Of course I was going to return home...but first I had to make one last, final stop at the Yard.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::watson:::::::::::::::lestrade::::::::::::::::

Yeah...much different then my other Sherlock Holmes story, although in both I tried to mimic Doyle's style.

I am also proud to say that I believe this is my longest first chapter ever, with a total of 2100 words and five pages.


	2. Chapter 1

**Trepidation**

**Full Summary: **Inspector Lestrade has done something that surprises even the Great Detective. Now he is gone—and one Inspector has been looking guiltier with each passing day. Will the good doctor and our favorite detective be able to solve this puzzling affair?'

**Main Characters: **Holmes, Watson, Lestrade. (And the rest of the Inspectors, perhaps the Irregulars too)

**This was going to be my first Sherlock Holmes story, but instead I wrote a humorous oneshot called Malicious Generosity (three reviews) But still...advice appreciated. I was trying to imitate the style of Doyle—what do you guys think?**

Oh yeah...Holmes had once mentioned that there was an ongoing rivalry between Gregson and Lestrade, which is somewhat exaggerated here. (Especially in the prologue).

...

_"He is the most famous detective ever to walk the corridors of Scotland Yard, yet he existed only in the fertile imagination of a writer. He was Inspector Lestrade. We do not know his first name, only his initial: G. Although he appears thirteen times in the immortal adventures of Sherlock Holmes, nothing is known of the life outside the Yard of the detective whom Dr. Watson described unflatteringly as sallow, rat-faced, and dark-eyes and whom Holmes saw as quick and energetic but wholly conventional, lacking in imagination, and normally out of his depth-the best of a bad lot who had reached the top in the CID by bulldog tenacity."_-H. Paul Jeffers

...

Note: I forgot to mention in the previous chapter—in all my Sherlock Holmes stories, I have Watson's war injuries in both his shoulder and leg, as it was never clear in the Canon whether it was one, the other, or both.

**Chapter One**

**(Watson, Third Person PoV)**

Holmes leaped from the cab, and strode toward the front door of Scotland Yard, with a familiar air of impatience about him. I was quick to follow, thanking the cabbie hurriedly as I tried to keep up with my friend.

"Lestrade!" Holmes bellowed, flinging open the door, causing a nearby constable to glance at him in irritation. I managed a quick apology to the man whilst running as fast as my war-affected leg could be used.

Managing to stay at a pace not five paces behind Holmes, I was startled when he abruptly halted—stopping myself, I realized that this was because he had run into Inspector Hopkins. Hopkins, as I may have mentioned previously, was a promising inspector, still in his prime—which was most evident in his step and posture.

"Hopkins!" Holmes grabbed the fellow by the wrist before the inspector could stammer out an apology and move on.

"Mr. Holmes?"

"Is Inspector Lestrade in his office?"

At this Hopkins stiffened visibly. "Who, sir?"

"You know damn well who I mean. Is he in or not?"

Hopkins looked away purposefully, and I furrowed my brow in confusion, confused as to why he would do so.

"Answer me, Hopkins!"

He hesitated. "I'm afraid Mr. Lestrade does not occupy the title of Inspector anymore."

I started, my mind reeling in shock. "What?" I asked, dumbfounded.

Holmes, too, was stilled for a moment. "Do you mean to say he has been demoted?" He asked, skepticism clear in his voice.

"No, sir." The Inspector sill would not meet either of our gazes. "He has resigned."

"What?" I repeated, astonished. Holmes beside me seemed at a loss for words. "That is absurd. Lestrade would never do such a thing."

"But he has, Doctor Watson. We think alike, however, and I'm sorry to say that I must leave you both with news that I consider a tragedy. If you'll excuse me, I have a case."

With that, Hopkins was gone, heading down the corridor with haste and a forced vigor in his step. I found myself looking to Holmes, as I was at a loss as to what to do. He was looking in Hopkins's direction with an expression that I couldn't quite fathom, and for a moment we were both unmoving.

Then he stirred, becoming that figure—that definition of energy that I knew intimately.

"Come, Watson!" He cried. "To Lestrade's office!"

And we were off again, acting as if we were being chased—or were the chasers. There were many a constable and Sargent we angered, all of whom Holmes ignored, and all of whom I apologized to.

It was this breakneck speed that caused Holmes to knock over Inspector Bradstreet, who fell in a flurry of papers. "What the devil—Lestrade does not occupy an-!"

"We heard!" Holmes called over his shoulder.

"Sorry!"

A minute more and we found ourselves at Lestrade's office—or rather, what used to be his office. Regaining our breath, we became witness to two constables shoving what looked like a desk out of the door of Lestrade's office. There came forth a voice from the inside—an obnoxious, smug voice that I am ashamed to say biased my thoughts of the issuer. "Put your back into it, you buors **(1)**! Come on, 'Constable' Ross—I'm betting you're a macer **(2)** and a downy **(3) **one at that! What about you, Hawkings? A flimp **(4)**? Dragsman **(5)** ? You both aren't worth duce **(6)**, you realize that?"

I myself found the man's way of speech unfollowable—his exaggerated use of the cockney slang was incomprehensible to me—but I understood enough to realize that he was insulting the poor constables—their cheeks reddening with shame was enough.

Inspector Jones joined us from behind. "Bradstreet told me you'd be here," he said glumly. "Don't mind me—I come from two doors down left from here—I've had to listen to _him_-" here he nodded, acknowledging the voice, "all morning, and believe you me, it gives one the headache."

"Who is he?" I asked.

"Newly promoted Inspector Robbins, who will soon currently occupy Lestrade's old office. As you can see, he's clearing it out right now—well, Constables Ross and Hawkings are, he's barking out the orders. Apparently Lestrade said he'd pick up his personal items later, so Robbins is doing him the 'favor' of clearing his belongings out for him."

"He speaks with the tongue of the lower class..." Holmes murmured.

"Yes—he supposedly grew up with the bad sort of lot, and has never lost the accent nor the language." Jones grumbled. "And neither has Lestrade."

"Ross, if you drop that _one _more time, I shall label you as a leg **(7)** and have you stripped of your rozzer **(8) **status!"

Jones winced at that last insult and made one last comment. "I wager Lestrade shan't be back here until late evening, when most people are gone to retrieve what he owns. In the meantime, I or another inspector can contact him for what you wish...?"

Holmes's eye twitched. "It is...nothing. I shall-"

There came a crash from the inside, followed by several smaller thumps, followed by Inspector Robbins's voice. "Right. I've knocked down one of the gammy **(9)** cove's **(10) **bookcases. Start carrying 'em out." The two constables—who had been attempting to position the desk outside the door in a way where it would not inconvenience anyone using the corridor—reluctantly went back inside the office.

"I'd best be off, then." Jones smiled without mirth, and bade us good-bye with a final thought: "I shall not envy the man who crosses paths with Robbins, no, I shall not. And," here he paused. "I pray to God that that man is not me."

And so the Inspector went off, to -I supposed- his office.

"Was that Jones I saw—Good Lord, what on earth is going on?" Gregson's voice sounded from behind me, and I turned to greet him. The Inspector shuffled toward us, covering a yawn with his left and clutched in his right a coffee cup, steaming. Holmes was still a statue—portraying what could only be interpreted as deep thought.

"Lestrade has apparently resigned—his replacement, one Inspector Robbins in cleaning out Lestrade's old office."

Much to my surprise, the Inspector suddenly dropped his coffee cup, causing Holmes to start, glancing at us in alarm. "He resigned?"

"Yes—just last night too. And to think—he didn't show a sign of even planning such a thing when he came to visit us..."

"Resigned?"

"No one foresaw it Gregson—not even I! There is no use dwelling on it." Holmes snapped. As he did so, there came several thumps identical to the ones previously created by the felling of the bookcase, following those came a barely audible curse. Looking over, I saw Constable Hawkings bending over a pile of books that he obviously had dropped coming out of the room. Ross stood behind him, straining under the weight of many heavy-looking books, looking down at his companion with a helpless look on his face.

"I didn't think he would actually do it..." The Inspector murmured, and then automatically bent down to pick up the coffee-soaked shards of glass, pulling out a rag from his pocket to soak up the liquid.

At his spoken question, I froze, and said to him sharply,

"Why? What do you know?"

Gregson mopped the liquid up faster. "Nothing...nothing at all. I must be going, gentlemen. Good-day." I couldn't quite fathom how he had managed to retrieve all the shards of the mug in such a short amount of time, but when I looked down, there were no spots of liquid nor pieces of the mug on the floor to be seen. Looking back up, I found he was gone.

"He's been up to something." Someone from behind me muttered darkly. It was Bradstreet, who nodded hello. "I'll have you both know I was cleaning up that mess of papers for ten minutes." He glared at Holmes, who merely shrugged in reply. "I didn't know how much you already knew," he continued, "so I decided to come and explain things in case you didn't. After I organized the papers." He added.

"You think he may have had a part in...this?" Holmes gestured to the growing mess of Lestrade's possessions.

"All I know is that he's been up to something, and what I just saw between you and him proves it. You should have seen him when he came in today—sure, he did and does look exhausted, but he had that satisfied air he gets when he disillusions or insults—mocks-someone else. I'm assuming that person was Lestrade."

Three constables joined us. "Found the murderess, Inspector. She's hiding out in her seamstress friend's place with both of the crates." The tallest of them said.

"Good, good! I'll be with you in a moment, Dosby." Bradstreet responded. "You'll excuse us, gentlemen. I've been on this case for two weeks, now, and I'm glad to see it's coming to a close." With a disapproving glance towards Lestrade's—Robbin's office, he left us alone once more, save for the unlucky constables who were cleaning out Robbin's office.

"I'd like to meet this Inspector Robbins." Holmes said, striding toward Robbin's office. I hurried after him, although in all honestly I detested the thought of doing so.

"I'm sorry, sirs." Constable Hawking, who had managed to stack up the books in a presentable way, touched his cap apologetically. "But Inspector Robbins has requested that no one except us come near the office until it is presentable, and Mr. Lestrade's items are removed."

"He will see me." Holmes said confidently. Ross, coming out with another armful of books, glanced at us nervously.

"Constable Hawkings is correct, gentlemen. Inspector Robbins will become very irritated if you come in at this time."

"His anger does not concern me." Holmes brushed off their warnings with a dismissive wave of his hand, and disappeared into the room. I shrugged helplessly at the constables before following suit.

Evidently, Ross and Hawkings had already brought in Robbin's desk, for there it sat a corner of the room, and seated behind it was the Inspector himself, with both feet propped up on the surface. He glared at us, not bothering to put down his feet nor stand in recognition. "What do you think you're doing here?" He sneered. "I thought I specifically told them constables to not let anyone in. Useless-"

"They warned me, Inspector. I chose to ignore their advice—do not punish the wrong men, sir."

"Why'd you come? I suppose you heard of my brilliance and came for help on an issue. Well, I cannot give you the privilege of my company on your case, whatever that may be. Not until my office is finished. _Gentlemen._" The way he spoke the last part somehow made the compliment seem like an insult, and I fumed silently.

"No, sir. You see, I too accept cases. I am Sherlock Holmes, amateur-"

"Holmes?" Robbins asked, putting his feet down. "I was warned about you. They said you would come in here and try to steal my cases. I won't have any of it, I warn you. You are an amateur, Holmes, and that is all you shall ever be. After all—our roles _are_ reversed. As you are a civilian, I expect that I shall see more of you in the future—you shall most likely ask me for advice, and I will most likely refuse to give it to you, because you are a fraud. You use cheap tricks to astound your clients, and somehow stumble across the right suspect through guesswork and luck. I won't consort with your type, Holmes, I shall not." With that, he put his feet up again, reclining as if he were king and we were servants. "Now leave me, _gentlemen_. I have business to attend to."

"Lestrade." Holmes said quickly. "What did you think of your successor?"

"He's full of codswallop" Robbins smirked. "He is a disgrace to all Yarders—he somehow managed to reach the status of Inspector without the intelligence I feel is required to take on such a job. Good riddance, I say, good riddance! The Yard is deprived of nothing but a waste of space. I would say the only skills he has are those of bravery and superiority—I suppose it _will_ be hard for him to support his family after his resignation...now, I saw again, leave me. I have no need of your drivel."

And we were gone, exiting the room, I with almost uncontrollable rage and Holmes with a facade of serenity I thought not possible after listening to a man such as that speak.

"How—dare he!" I spluttered as we came to a halt in an empty corridor. "That narcissist! That...rude disgrace of a man! I loathe him Holmes, I really do!"

Holmes was quiet, leaning against the wall. "He is not...a pleasant man, by any means." He agreed. "Not at all."

We stood in silence, myself reflecting on how much I would like to engage Robbins in a brawl and prove that he was less the common man, no matter how much he believe he was more.

"Watson, what would you have us do?"

I shifted uncomfortably, unsure as to what Holmes wanted the answer to be.

"You can do as you like, Holmes. However, I am inclined to visit the Lestrade household, and talk to the man myself. So I can understand what on earth he was thinking, resigning like that..."

"And I shall join you. I still have an obligation to relay the information he sought last night. When do we go?"

"I'd say in three hours time—it is too early to do anything now."

"Certainly, Watson. Now, I know a pleasant little restaurant close by, where we can breakfast in solitude. It really is a charming little place. Would you like to give it a try?"

"Of course."

And so we were off, exiting the Yard and strolling down the pavement to dine. Holmes chatted companionably about the weather, and a new piece of music he had acquired last week, but I confess my mind was still on the loathsome figure of Inspector Robbins, and Lestrade's belongings, maltreated and desolate in that corridor of Scotland Yard.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-oooooooooooo-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

Six pages!

**Buors – Women**

**Macer – A Cheat**

**Downy – Cunning (false)**

**Flimp – A thief who mainly pickpockets crowds**

**Dragsman – A thief who steals from carriages**

**Duce – Another word for Tuppence**

**Leg – A dishonest person**

**Rozzer – A policeman**

**Gammy – False, hostile, undependable**

**Cove – A man (Gammy Cove—a hostile/undependable man)**

I'm sorry about all those [cockney] 19th century slang words in there—it may have been hard to read—but I was trying to convey how disrespectable Robbins really is. Thanks to all 3 reviewers!


	3. Chapter 2

**Trepidation**

**Full Summary: **Inspector Lestrade has done something that surprises even the Great Detective. Now he is gone—and one Inspector has been looking guiltier with each passing day. Will the good doctor and our favorite detective be able to solve this puzzling affair?'

**Main Characters: **Holmes, Watson, Lestrade. (And the rest of the Inspectors, perhaps the Irregulars too)

**This was going to be my first Sherlock Holmes story, but instead I wrote a humorous oneshot called Malicious Generosity (three reviews) But still...advice appreciated. I was trying to imitate the style of Doyle—what do you guys think?**

Oh yeah...Holmes had once mentioned that there was an ongoing rivalry between Gregson and Lestrade, which is somewhat exaggerated here. (Especially in the prologue).

...

"_...__There was one little sallow rat-faced, dark-eyed fellow who was introduced to me as Mr. Lestrade, and who came three or four times in a single week..."_ -A Study in Scarlet

...

**Chapter Two**

Although I have been in acquaintance with Lestrade for some time now, I admit I have been inside his house only once—and that was early in my partnership with Holmes. So it was still an unusual experience to visit the ex-inspector's home—and drawing close to it in our cab, I felt a faint unease at doing so—Lestrade had never willingly invited us to anything casual.

"Here you are, gents." The cabbie's voice sounded above us as the cab drew to a halt. Getting out, I turned to thank the cabbie, who had been pleasant and patient whenever Holmes had signaled for him to stop—so we could extend or conversation.

"May I inquire as to your name?" I asked.

"Certainly. My formal name is Moby Walter Robbins."

Holmes exited the cab, and immediately looked up at the mention of the cabbie's name. "Robbins?" He echoed.

"Yessir," the cabbie replied. "Do you know someone who shares the name?"

"Yes!" I cut in. "An Inspector Robbins-"

"Emory? Yes, I know him. He's my brother." The man said, sighing. I recalled the image of the Inspector reclining in his seat, well-dressed and healthy-looking. His brother before me was dressed in shabby material, held together with patches and grime. His build was thin, and and there was a gauntness in his eyes, that mirrored the eyes of a desperate man. However, this man was cheerful, and he smiled when he spoke.

"Need a shine, Mister?" I looked behind me to find a young boy, no more than 7, peering up at me from under a ragged cap. He was dressed similar to that of Moby Robbins, and seemed to have that same look of undernourishment about him.

"Antony David Robbins! What have I told you about interrupting conversations?" The boy became apologetic. "Sorry, govn'r." He then touched the tip of his cap, a small sheepish grin gracing his face.

"Your son?" Holmes asked.

"One of two." The man responded proudly.

"Shouldn't he be in school?" I asked worriedly. M. Robbins (as I shall refer to him from here on) frowned.

"He should. All of my children should. But the fact is, gentlemen, most men cannot support their families on their wages alone. I have tried again and again to send them to school. The first time, my wife contracted an illness and we could not afford a doctor. The second time, we fell into debt. The third time, I was almost fired and had to sell a couple of heirlooms that had been in the family for generations. So you see, sirs, it is a hard life, and unfortunately my children sacrificed their education for it."

"But your brother—he does not lend you any money at all?" I exclaimed, once again angered by the Inspector.

"No, sir, he says he has 'is own life to live and support. My wife is awful angry about him—she argues that as he has no wife nor children of his own he should help us with his extra money. However, I feel that family is family, and it would be wrong to impose on him."

"Wrong to-" I spluttered, outraged. "Wrong to impose? He is in the wrong, sir. Family is family, as you say, and if he ignores his then I have nothing but-"

"We have detained you, Mr. Robbins." Holmes interrupt, fishing around in his pocket for change. "And perhaps lost you clients. I hope this shall compensate for your patience." He drew out a sum of money I could not measure the amount of. It must have been more then the man had ever seen in one palm, for his eyes widened and his hand shook.

"I cannot accept...this much money, sir!" He held out the money, but Holmes shook his head.

"It is nothing, my friend. Keep it."

"Nothing to you perhaps..." M. Robbins drew his hand close to him, counting the money again. His hand suddenly curled into a fist, tightly and without warning. "I...thank you."

"Father, mother was looking for you earlier. She said you forgot your lunch again." Antony cut in, blushing as he remembered his father's rule about interrupting.

"Could you go tell her that I left it for her? It's her turn to have lunch today—I suppose she forgot." The cabbie replied. We all watched as the young boy raced away, his ragged scarf fluttering behind him. Then he looked back down at us. "Thank you gentlemen. For everything. However, I have kept you from your meeting, and as we both have obligations I suggest we part. Give my regards to my brother if you see him."

With a nod, he was off, and we were alone, ten paces from Lestrade's house. I half-wished that M. Robbins had stayed longer, so reluctant was I to disturb the Lestrade's. "There's no use delaying it, Watson. We must go." Yet again, Holmes had somehow discerned what I was thinking—but I had no time to admire him, for by the time I joined him he was bending over a child sitting on the porch steps, who shivered under a blanket.

"Why, you're Mr. Sherlock Holmes!" The child cried, standing up. "And Doctor Watson! It's been a while since I've seen you both." I stood embarrassed, racking my brains in an attempt to remember which child this was—Lestrade had three boys, as far as I could remember, and two girls. How old had the child been when he had met us? Six? Five? And the fact that he could recall our names and faces when I could not do the same for him was disturbing.

"Are you...hmm...are you...dear me, I think he's the one who starts with C..." This last part Holmes muttered under his breath.

"Charles. I'm Charles. But I'll prefer it when you call me Charlie." The boy said, seemingly not in the least affected by our failing to recall his name.

"What are you doing out here? Why aren't you in school?" I asked. The boy—I judged him nine or so, coughed slightly. "I've been sick for almost a week now, so until I'm better," he shrugged. "I stay at home."

I was about to express my alarm at he being outside when ill, but Holmes voiced my thoughts before I could. "Do your parents know you're outside? Shouldn't you be...in bed?"

"Kinda sort of...they asked me to leave the sitting room so they could have a talk, but when I heard them start to argue I decided it'd be best to leave the house until things quieted down a little."

"Outrageous. Come, we were visiting ourselves, and we'll bring you back in." I protested vehemently.

"I wouldn't..."

"Well, I would. Holmes, knock on the door, will you?"

Holmes stepped up to the door, his hand raised to knock. He hesitated, tilting his head to an open window—coming closer, I realized he was listening to raised voices. This is the following of what I heard—Holmes refuses to contribute to my scribblings, as he calls them, and even if he decided to give information I believe in this instance it wouldn't have done anything to affect what I lay down before you at all.

"...you thinking?"

"...I...don't...he deserves...listen, will you?"

"How...support children...think of them at all?"

"Of course...find work...maybe..."

"...children...school? ...Education...Giles!"

"Please..."

It was here that Holmes chose to knock, and the argument abruptly ceased. A few moments later, and the door opened, revealing a women graced with pleasant features and a natural air of elegance about her. "Yes?" She asked. I was surprised to see that there was no sign of wetness in her eyes, nor a tremor in her voice.

"Mrs. Lestrade? We met once before." Holmes said, bowing slightly.

Her eyes widened slightly, and she looked behind her for a moment, as if checking for her husband. Then she turned back to us. "Of course—Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson. Giles speaks quite highly of you both. However, I feel that it wouldn't be right for you to visit at this particular time-"

"Who is it, Emily?" Lestrade's voice came from the inside, and he himself soon appeared behind his wife.

"Lestrade," Holmes started, hurrying though his words as if he were afraid of being interrupted, or worse, shut out of the house. "Let us come inside. If not us, then your son, who has been sitting out here for a good while now."

"Charlie?" Lestrade and his wife exchanged alarmed glances, before the lady opened the door further and allowed us in, immediately lecturing her son on the dangers of what he had done. Holmes quietly pulled Lestrade aside, and I joined them. We stood in silence for a few moments, and I could tell that Holmes was scrutinizing the man with that cool expression I and his clients knew so well.

"I have the information you asked for." Holmes said, holding out the paper Lestrade had brought to us the night before. Lestrade wordlessly took his child's drawing, and waited expectantly. I noted the dark rings under his eyes, and the still-visible bruise on his jaw.

"The mud is quite singular—it largely consists of a mud found by a large metalwork factory by the docks. However, there are other-several other mud types here, from the alleyways behind the butcher shops, and that from a schoolyard on the outskirts of town. There is also a very small trace of tobacco ash, which had been stuck to the sole of the shoe with a glue used by carpenters. The tobacco itself was of cheap makings—probably from the Saxbry Tobacco shop. The shoe is of crude origins—note the uneven thread, and several places where it appears that parts of the sole have worn off slightly. It itself is large, indicating that the man is of great height and/or width, or that they were handed down to him by his father, although this I doubt, for the amount of mud left on the paper was enough for me to conclude that if the man in question had been lighter then his shoe size implied, he would not have left as much mud, nor would it have been spread so evenly such as this example. I therefore believe that the man to which this footprint belongs is of low class—most probably a worker from the metalwork factory, and as befitting a man of his class and size, is not easily intimidated." He finished, gesturing the bruise on Lestrade's jaw.

Lestrade's expression did not change. "Thank you." He replied gruffly.

"Your replacement is having constables clean out your office—they're almost done, and they said that you intended to retrieve them later."

"I intend to do so." He hesitated. "You may leave, now."

"I think not." Holmes smoothly replied. "I believe we can safely put aside formalities, Lestrade. I wish to inquire on why exactly you chose to leave the Yard. I believe Watson will agree with me when I say that you were the one Inspector everybody thought would stick to the job until the inevitable occurred."

Lestrade paled slightly. "That is none of your concern."

"I daresay it is!" I cut in. "You have been our associate—and dare I mention it—even our _friend_ for a while, Lestrade...longer than I've known you. I refuse to believe you did this willingly. Did Gregson have anything to do with it?"

At this, Lestrade looked into not mine but Holmes's eyes directly, and said, "No."

"Who left this footprint, Lestrade?" Holmes pointed at the paper clutched in Lestrade's hand.

"I thought this was a required visit, brought on by my paper. It was not supposed to turn into an interrogation!" Lestrade's eyes flashed, and his next words were of forced politeness. "Don't you have patients that need tending to, Doctor? And you, Mr. Holmes, I believe you are neglecting your duties as a detective. I need not worry about my own obligations to my occupation, for currently I have none! Good-day, gentlemen." He grasped my hand, shook it firmly and bade us good-bye. Before I could make sense of it, Holmes and I were on the front porch, and the door was closing behind us.

I stood in bewildered silence, Holmes in thought. When I had recovered my wits, I chanced a look at my friend, and said, "That was...unlike Lestrade."

"You state the obvious as usual, Watson." My friend's reply was distant, and so I did not take his insult too much to heart.

We then hurried down the couple of steps, as if believing the far-fetched thought that we were trespassing on Lestrade territory. Once a good few yards away from the house, I stopped, Holmes doing the same.

"Do you believe he was lying about Gregson, Holmes?" I asked. Holmes took a minute before replying.

"I believe so, Watson, although it has been steadily getting harder to tell whether he's lying or not-"

"Wait!"

The call issued from Charles Lestrade, who clutched his blanket around him with one hand, and held something in the other, which was outstretched in front of him as he ran to us.

"Are you trying to worsen your condition?" I snapped, angered not by the boy but by his apparent foolishness.

"You forgot something, Mr. Holmes." He panted, coughing slightly as he held out his hand. In it was what I thought to be a letter of some sort, but I could not tell for long, as Holmes snatched it out of the boy's hand and shoved it in his pocket.

"Did you read it?" Holmes's voice was colder than I had heard in a while, his gray eyes steely as he gazed upon the boy—who shook his head. After a moment, Holmes relaxed slightly. "I didn't forget it." He said quietly.

"I know," Charlie said sheepishly. "'Cause I pickpocketed it—I needed an excuse to talk to you privately." At this, Holmes stared at him in disbelief—myself included, for I could not recall a time when any urchin had successfully pickpocketed the Great Detective before.

"You...managed to pickpocket me?" Holmes's voice was low, his surprise coming forth freely from his tongue.

"Yeah." Charlie's voice was enthusiastic. "With skills like that, you can't turn me down!"

"What do you mean?" Holmes replied.

"I want to become an Irregular!"

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Sorry it took a while to update this.

I was pleased that the first three reviewers reviewed again—thanks, you guys! And hey, thanks to the three new reviewers too!

And, of course, to all those who subscribed and/or favorited.

So...sorry if this chapter doesn't live up to the other two. I should have spent more time on it.


	4. Chapter 3

The idea of a Lestrade becoming an Irregular had never occurred to me-or to Holmes, I gather. Holmes indeed demanded to know where Charlie had heard of the name, having ordered the rest of the urchins to not discuss the group with other children. While they were a good-hearted lot, only a few shifty and perhaps unreliable, there's always at least one child desperate enough to say anything for sake of coin-and I had no reason to disbelieve the theory that there may have been that child in the motley crew of children Holmes used frequently in his cases. Charlie had replied that Holmes mustn't blame the other members, Charlie had never inquired openly as to their activities. However he would often become suspicious when spotting a small ragtag group of children picking the lock of a door -truly an Inspector's son- and would spy upon them. He would often proceed to hear the words of 'Olmes, 'other Irregulars', 'biscuits', whispered among the younger of the thieves as they continued their mission of justice.

Holmes was truly at a loss for words at that moment, and I recall wondering briefly at whether his relationship with Lestrade was deeper than I had considered prior to this event. Their meetings were always formal, and both in Lestrade's company and without, he tended to remark upon Lestrade's intelligence and capabilities, although praise was sometimes smattered between insults. Was it possible that he felt reluctance at accepting a child of one he knew into a life of danger? "Your father-" Holmes hesitated.

Charlie insisted. "-doesn't have to know, Mr. Holmes. And besides, I'm already sort of prepared for this type of goings-about. I'm a real asset, sir, really I am."

"But surely your father would be furious if he knew," I had replied gently. "He and Holmes would be at each others throats, I am sure."

Charlie clenched his jaw in childish stubbornness. "Please sirs, I want to try it, I really do." His expression changed almost at once, becoming eager. "My brothers and sisters could join too-Miles is the best lock-picker I know, not to mention a ventriloquist, and Owen's been practicing his acting skills n' athletic abilities. Carolyn can charm anyone with that smile o'hers, not to mention fool them, and Wendy's got these wicked knives that can-"

"Absolutely not." Holmes had interrupted. "It'd be bad enough as it is with one of you chancing your life willingly at this age." I believe then his expression softened. "But if you are to become an Irregular, you must wait until your health improves before applying yourself to any physical activity." Charlie had grinned brightly, and raced back into his house at the cry of Mrs. Lestrade, who stood on the porch with her hands on her hips.

Now late afternoon, I stood with Holmes gazing at the metalwork factory he had mentioned in his analyzation of the footprint found on Lestrade's paper. In private, I had my doubts as to whether that was the real description Holmes had offered Lestrade. While it was only a footprint, I had thought that Holmes would have been able to discern more than "the man to which this footprint belongs is of low class—most probably a worker from the metalwork factory, and as befitting a man of his class and size, is not easily intimidated..." It seemed a rather weak answer to Lestrade's question, and there were only a couple of explanations I had to counter my foolish worry.

"Excuse me," Holmes said to a man passing by. "But are you in any way an authoritative figure at the factory?"

The man looked at him strangely, most likely comparing Holmes's attire to his own. "Blimey mate, you talk right fancy, you know?" He laughed nervously. "Wot's a toff like yew doing here?"

"My apologies. Are you in charge here, at the factory?"

The man's astonishment was plain on his face. "Me, in charge? Wouldn't that be something! I'd been sitting real pretty, I would, having a lush with the boys, n'giving orders 'stead of taking them. No, the man yew want is over there wiv those scrapmen , telling 'em wot to do."

"Thank you for your time." I said for Holmes, who was already hurrying toward the man in question. The worker nodded and departed after one last look at my apparel. I rejoined my companion, who was just commencing a conversation with the man.

"May I inquire as to your name, sir?"

"Cribbs. Sam Cribbs." Came the reply. "Oi-Bill, what're you doing? Don't think I'm not watching, Bill, I'm always watching."

Holmes pressed on. "Do you have an unusually large man who works in your facilities, with a history of violent temper?"

Cribbs snorted. "We've got a lot of 'large men wiv a history of violent temper', sir. What is this, a joke?"

"Of course. Let me specify-do you have a man of that description who goes by the name of Frank Tomson?"

I started, looking at my friend in undisguised wonder. He had not left my side since this affair began, and I could not recall a moment in which any sort of mention of this information had been portrayed.

Cribbs face reddened in anger. "Tomson?" He growled. "What's he done now?" He looked at us hopefully. "You wouldn't happen to be coppers, would you? Be doing us all a favor if you'd take him away."

"What has he done to produce such an opinion in you?" Holmes asked, his gaze focused on the man.

Cribbs looked about him nervously, barking an order toward one of the scrapmen to 'keep his eyes where they should be and not on those of the upper class', before clearing his throat and speaking in a lowered tone. "Well sirs...I'm not one to listen to rumors normally...but we all believe that he 'olds a candle to the devil, if you know what I mean. Trouble is, nobody who sees what he does has the authority to fire him. And none of the higher-ups will believe us."

"But what does he do that makes you hesitant to simply fire him?"

Cribbs scowled. "Thing is, the authorities won't allow it. He can lift twice as much as you or I without a sweat upon his brow. Too valuable to waste, they say."

Holmes tilted his head, a signal for Cribbs to continue. When the man offered no indication of doing so, Holmes removed his right hand from its glove, and extended it. Cribbs looked down in surprise, and slowly did the same, until a firm handshake had been produced. "I do not doubt that our paths shall cross again, Mister Cribbs," my friend said, pulling on his glove. "I thank you for your time, and return offer you my services. If you should ever need a consulting detective, you need only go to 221B Baker Street and ask for a Sherlock Holmes. In the meantime, I advise you to stay clear of the _Bastet_, which you seem so fond of visiting. It hosts the likes of men I am sure you do not wish to associate yourself with...especially as your wife is with child." Cribbs stared at Holmes in astonishment, but before he could formulate a reply Holmes was gone, hurrying back toward the pavement without so much as a good-bye. I did the same, after nodding to the man as compensation for my friend's lack of social etiquette.

"Holmes," I said, falling into step with the detective, "how did you know the name of our suspect? We have been together throughout the case, and I cannot recall a moment in which you may have disclosed his name. The only reason that comes to mind is one of deceit—that you did not find it prudent to reveal all of the boot's secrets to Lestrade."

Holmes smiled. "You have hit upon it, Watson. It would be an embarrassment to your depiction of the Great Detective if what I spoke to Lestrade was truly all that I could discover. It was in fact only in the process of returning the drawing to Lestrade did I notice the lower halves of the letters F and T, which were barely discernible at the edge of the sole. I imagine Tomson scratched them there himself upon receiving the pair, and had never bothered to redo them in order to retain visibility."

"But how did you know the initials represented those particular names?" I wondered. "For example, he could have been...Franklin Tobrias, or Francis Tallows...there was even a possibility of the initials not representing his own name at all-"

"My dear Watson," Holmes interrupted, his smile broader. "You have a remarkable tendency to put a great deal of thought into something that doesn't require it. While reading the newspaper this morning, I noticed a small ad that asked for the whereabouts of a Frank Tomson. The ad came from the Saxbry Tobacco shop, and it's precise words were...Wanted: The whereabouts of Frank Tomson, a large, dark-haired and strong late twenties man. If located, direct him to the Saxbry Tobacco Shop, The London Docks. Now tell me Watson, does this little advertisement not pique your interest?"

I mused over it for a moment. "It seems highly unusual. The opening word itself would suggest that our man Tomson had committed some wrong towards the shop, but the following text doesn't suggest such a thing—it merely asks for him to be redirected to them. The address of the shop itself is especially vague, as that area is quite large, with many a hidden alleyway and shop, those of which that might normally be pointed out on a street have the disadvantage of their signs being hidden from view, courtesy of the throngs that bustle through the place each day."

Holmes was visibly pleased. "You have not over-looked one thing, Watson. I applaud you for it. As you seem to be functioning on a higher lever of acute observation than is normal today, I wonder if you know what I plan our next course of action to be?"

"Well," I began. "We have stopped in the middle of a stretch of pavement, and not at a crosswalk. I shall assume for the moment that we are waiting to hail a cab, and as such our destination is not within a comfortable walking distance. There is no reason to return to Scotland Yard or to the residence of Lestrade at this time—we could always question Lestrade later as to what Tomson exactly said to him on that night...and I suppose returning to Baker Street would not result in quickly gaining information. I suspect that you'd rather like to act based off the ad and head for the Saxbry Tobacco Shop, thereby receiving data on Tomson, such as where his quarters are, or his mannerisms or past dealings."

"Bravo, Watson!' Holmes exclaimed, as he signaled for a cab. "I was wrong in my wager at the Hull establishment, you have exhibited that same heat one again..." A cab halted, and we clambered inside. Holmes continued. "...I also stated the opposite of reality when I mentioned that there was a small trace of tobacco ash. There was in truth a large amount of ash stuck to the sole, but only after I had completed a secondary examination of the imprint did I see it. The majority of the ash was lighter compared to the small area that I brought to Lestrade's attention, ergo not as easily noticed. At any rate, it implied that either Tomson smoked quite a bit—this was ruled out at once, Watson, he would be far skinnier than the sole suggests if he did—or that he frequented the shop often. This latter conclusion we shall work from, my dear fellow."

"Remarkable, Holmes." I responded, once again awed by my friend's brilliance.

His eyes twinkled. "And as a matter of fact Watson, I did know a Franklin Tobrias at one point in my lifetime. But that is a case for another time, and one I shall happily relay to you."

:::::::::::

The cab drew to a stop at the unofficial border which marked the start of the London Docks. Holmes paid the fare, and we stepped out onto the pavement. Numerous warehouses towered over us to our right, the ships and the Thames beckoned to our left. The streets and pavement were crowded with a variety of people: Sailors, cotsermongers, bootblacks, merchants, shoppers, crossing sweepers and even a few street conjurers. All of this created a spectacular sort of din, one fused with the cries of vendors, the shouts of children who either were playing or contributing to the family income, and all sorts of others. As we walked along, we soon passed shops crushed and stacked on top of each other, a precarious construction that seemed designed to collapse at any moment, some sagging upon their foundations and others held together by little more than nails. Every few doorsteps there would be a man advertising his wares, and if not there was often someone in an upper window, exclaiming that what he sold was better than the ones below and to the sides of him.

"Syllabub, sir? Getcha nice warm syllabub?" I looked down at my right sleeve; a feminine hand clutching at it. A pretty young milkmaid stared up at me, she and her companion carrying three buckets of syllabub between them. My declination about to spring forth from my lips, I suddenly noticed the age and status of the two girls. The speaker seemed to be in the late teens, her companion perhaps fourteen, thirteen...I could not be certain. Their clothing was ragged, by all appearances being held together by patches and not by thread. I smiled and nodded. The younger eagerly set down her buckets and raced away to a nearby stall, grabbing one of five mugs. She proceeded to dip it into a bucket, and handed me the drink. I gave her coin, but the two would not leave. When I asked as to why, they replied "See sir, we only got so many o' the cups..." The older trailed off, looking meaningfully to the four left on the stall counter. I answered that I would return the mug when finished. Satisfied, the girls immediately pursued a passerby laden with four children clinging to her skirt.

As I stood with the drink, Holmes was approached by a man pushing a wheelbarrow, the contents of which were foul-smelling and unidentifiable. "Interested in tripe cuttings? Horse flesh? Only the freshest for fine gentlemen! Bullock's liver? Only one pence for the tripe!"

Holmes was scandalized. "Why on earth would I want a bullock's liver?"

I knew what the man was talking about, having considered using the same foods for my bull-pup shortly after being discharged from the war. "He sells food for domestic animals, Holmes. For instance, if you had a dog you might be interested in buying the horse flesh to feed it."

Holmes impatiently waved the man away. "Hurry up with your syllabub, Watson."

Draining the mug's contents, I set the container down on the stall counter. The girl behind it nodded to me without speaking. I stayed close to Holmes, feeling sure that if we were to become separated I would not be able to find him again. Indeed, we were constantly bombarded with hawker's cries and hopeful requests from peddlers of all sorts.

"Sand? Nice sand to clean your floors!"

"Getcher nice fresh fish! Fresh fish!"

"Bandboxes? Anyone for bandboxes?"

"Chairs to mend! Chairs to mend! All kinds accepted, woods and rush! Chairs?"

"Lavender, ma'am?"

"Jellied eels! Hot pies! Pea soup!"

Those who were not shouting were either the quieter sort of vendor, or those with idle hand and mind. A few chummies sat on the doorstep of a shop, comparing brushes. My hearts went out to the young boys—even though the public demanded action in 1875 for something to be done, there were still a few children left who had to resort to climbing up chimney flues in order to help support their family...with physician's eyes I could distinguish burns amongst the grime coating their faces. Paupers stared at Holmes and I, no doubt attracted to our apparel. Indeed, I was the starer and the stared at, for I could not help but notice those in the shadows, or crawling about on the Thames foreshore...these latter people were known as the mudlarks, and many of whom had no home. Although of the middle class and not of the upper, it was painfully evident to me that many of these people had never been in such close proximity with someone of our status. A crossing-sweeper was so bold as to reach out and attempt to reverentially touch my cane—Holmes sent him a warning glare so fierce that the man immediately stumbled back, mumbling apologies.

I latched onto Holmes's arm, struck with an insane thought that if we were separated, I would be forced to eat a jellied eel—the though made me nauseous. I had never been fond of eels. "But where _is_ the Saxbry Tobacco Shop?" I asked, narrowly avoiding a sailor loaded down with cargo.

"I have had the fortune to come across this shop twice before,Watson." Holmes calmly replied, neatly stepping around two children eagerly collecting horse droppings. "Once due to chance, another for a case. It is not far."

Indeed it wasn't. There was only a turn of a corner and half a block to be made, and had he not pointed it out to me I would have been almost certain to miss it. It was wedged between a drapers shop and a cobbler's domain. It's wooden sign was hanging by one hinge from a protruding metal rod out of the wall; the sign was rotting the title of the store faded. The windows themselves were dirtied to the point of being obtuse, the hinges of the door making a terrible noise when we walked through the entrance. Once inside, we found that there was barely room to move. Objects that appeared to have no purpose cluttered the inside, and I found myself uncomfortably wedged between a shelf containing stray cigars and dusty books—and the frame of a mirror. Holmes had managed to weave his way through the mess and approached the clerk's desk, though there was no clerk to accompany it. Instead of searching for a bell to ring, Holmes rapped sharply upon the desk's surface three times.

A man emerged from a back-door I had not noticed until then, and stood to attention behind the register. He wore a soot covered smock, which hid a wrinkled woolen shirt, and went down to the knees of flannel trousers. Crowning his head was a slouched cloth cap, casting a slight shadow over his aging face. I judged the man to be in his sixties or so, his gray sideburns indicating that he was at least in his forties.

"Ah, Mister Saxbry, how good it is to see you again!" Holmes took off his hat with a flourish, and bowed to the gentlemen—who regarded my friend's antics with a solemn gaze and not a twitch to the mouth. I could not ascertain as to whether my friend was mocking the man or not.

"Detective Holmes." Saxbry's gaze was carefully blank, though I thought a hint of suspicion flashed in his eyes. "What brings you to the bleaker part of the universe?"

Holmes wasted no time. "Frank Tomson." The name rolled off his tongue smoothly, without an indication to his purpose.

Saxbry's thick eyebrows furrowed, and he frowned. "Who, detective?"

It was not hard to tell that Saxbry was preparing to withhold information, the stiffening of his form a dead giveaway.

"You know the exact person I speak of, Mister Saxbry, and I have no doubt you heavily suspect my reasons for asking about him. At any rate, I know of your ad in the paper. Do not look so disbelieving, man, I do not overlook even the smallest of facts around me, whether they come from royalty or poverty."

I observed the owner, who seemed very adept at keeping his emotions in check. He clasped his hands behind his back and stood silently. I ventured to speak. "May I inquire as to why you refuse what could be the answer to your ad? I would have thought that you would have welcomed any mention of Tomson with open arms."

"He does not want any kind of authority involved, Watson." Holmes raised his lips in a slight smirk. "Though if he refuses us now, the consequences for him shall be much worse if we become involved at a later date."

Saxbry's jaw clenched. "You have dealt with him before—you know of his whereabouts?"

Holmes swooped upon the opportunity. "Perhaps. Tell us of what you know, and I shall endeavor to make a quick recovery from my sudden illness of selective memory."

Saxbry's eyes flitted about his shop. He beckoned us to join him behind his counter, and when Holmes and I were safe from inanimate objects he darted for the door to his shop. He reached for a faded sign, which he flipped to make the word 'closed' visible to the public, and then darted back behind the counter. He opened the back-door and led us through it; we emerged and found ourselves into an office just as crowded as the shop area. Once Holmes and I were seated, respectively on box and stacks of papers, Saxbry opened his mouth and began to speak.

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**As you can see, a LOT of research went into this chapter. This doesn't make up for my lack of update, however, and I apologize. I don't really like the way I ended it, but it's already seven pages long and I thought I should update/end the chapter soon. If my historical facts are incorrect, please feel free to tell me. (If KCS ever reads this, I'd be honored to hear what she has to say). **


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